


Sickening

by hunnitea



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Bottom England (Hetalia), Creampie, Crying, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Light Dom/sub, Light Sadism, M/M, Medicine, Non-Consensual Touching, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rape, Sad, Sadism, Sick Character, Top France (Hetalia), Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:34:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26167246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunnitea/pseuds/hunnitea
Summary: He's had those thoughts about England before, but England had always been feisty; as soon as France would place a hand too close to England's crotch, he'd shriek and yell and hit and kick frantically about, most of the time hitting France with wild precision. He was like a cornered animal – an untamed, feral cat.England's docile now. He's quiet and submissive; against his will, of course; not that it changes anything.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 54





	Sickening

**Author's Note:**

> Remember that episode where England was sick and France was taking care of him? Yeah, this is that, but France does some bad things. This has probably been done already, but oh well.
> 
> Also France uses medicine as lube for some reason.

England's sick.

He lies in bed, face flushed and glistening with sweat, and France has to watch over him. He surprisingly doesn't protest much, even as England goes limp or falls asleep at the most inconvenient times.

France admires the thick, dark lashes that ghost England's cheeks, and a smile quirks the corners of his mouth upwards as he realises they match his eyebrows. A chuckle rumbles in France's chest, threatening to spill from his lips as he thinks about how England would've slapped him if he'd said that aloud to him.

But England is sick, and he cannot talk.

France is preparing another dose of medicine for when England awakens – which he assumes will be soon, judging by the nation's incessant squirming and soft whimpering – and a thought, loud and jarring, makes him stop.

'England is in no state to fight,' his mind whispers. 'He is vulnerable.'

With that established, France turns to glance at where the English nation lies on the bed, body concealed by a thick white duvet. His lovely, slim body, protected by loose, baby-blue pyjamas. France is briefly haunted by the imagery of pulling them off before he shakes his head, brows furrowing.

He's had those thoughts about England before, but England had always been feisty; as soon as France would place a hand too close to England's crotch, he'd shriek and yell and hit and kick frantically about, most of the time hitting France with wild precision. He was like a cornered animal – an untamed, feral cat.

England's docile now. He's quiet and submissive; against his will, of course; not that it changes anything.

France places the medicine bottle down, barely registering the sound of the glass hitting the small wooden table. England shifts in the bed again, whining and arching and baring his neck. His skin is pale and it looks soft, even from where France is standing (which isn't even very far away). It looks easy to leave a mark on, and that's where France snaps.

“You're so quiet,” he says, voice hushed as he kneels beside England. “You're never this quiet. It'd be nice if you were like this more often.”

The other nation doesn't respond other than an irritated-sounding whine, one that's so typically England that it makes France smile again. This still doesn't stop him.

He leans in, tucking a strand of England's golden blond hair behind his ear. France admires the way England's fringe sticks to his forehead, plastered down by sweat. He'd forgotten about the English nation's fever, but it seems of little relevance to him now.

Eyes fluttering shut, France bows his head towards England's neck, and he presses a light, chaste kiss to his Adam's apple. He feels it bob as England swallows. France pulls back, eyes darkened with perverse, sickening desire. France stands and idly traces the curve of England's small, slightly upturned nose, dusted with a smattering of barely-there freckles. He'd never truly noticed how delicate England's features are until now.

“I want to see more,” he says, almost to clarify it for himself. 

Slowly, he drags the duvet down England's pliant body, exposing the loose-fitting pyjamas England is wearing. England shuffles on the bed, eyes still shut, and he turns his head to the side. This doesn't bother France at all, despite how England looking away feels like a rejection.

'Whatever,' he thinks, mumbling quietly to himself, 'it's not like he's fully here for this anyway.'

A hand, calloused and slender, slides down England's chest, down his stomach, his waist, and those long, thin fingers tease the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. England isn't wearing underwear apparently, and France suppresses a grin as he fists the small, limp cock that hides beneath the plain clothes he wears. The rough palm of his hand chafes the sensitive skin and England whines, a small bead of perspiration already forming at his temple. France's thumb gently flicks the tip and England squirms, movements clumsy and uncoordinated, and he doesn't awaken. His penis still twitches in France's hold, however, and a quiet whimper passes England's slightly parted lips.

France speeds up, hand tentatively squeezing the hardening flesh. England makes a choked sound, lost somewhere between a sob and a moan. The lust-filled daze those cerulean eyes hold travels over to the bedside table, where he'd set down the medicine bottle. France removes his hand, smirking at the damp spot on the front of England's thin pyjama bottoms. He retrieves the bottle and unscrews the white lid, tipping a large glob of thick, yellow-tinted medicine into his palm. It's likely not the best thing to use as lube, but it's good enough.

France abruptly realises in hindsight he should've pulled England's trousers down first, but it's too late for that now. With his free hand, he clumsily nudges the pyjama bottoms down to mid-thigh, which he deems as good enough. Smearing the medicine in his palm, he spreads it over to his fingers, cock twitching in his own trousers. Finally, he reaches down between England's spread legs, fingers brushing against that small, pink hole that hides between soft mounds of flesh. Carefully studying England's face for any expressions of pain, he eases in his middle finger first, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth at the warmth and tight pressure of the English nation's body. He pumps the digit slowly, in and out and in and out again, hypnotised by the way the Brit's hole yields to the intrusion. His gaze has wandered from England's face, focused solely on stretching him out. France doesn't notice when England's eyes flutter open.

“France?”

The aforementioned Frenchman startles, finger spasming inside England. He glares and bares his teeth like an animal at England, and England can only frown weakly.

“Could you stop?” the English nation queries, voice raspy and hoarse. “I don't like this.”

France merely shakes his head, rubbing a second finger at England's entrance. England's breathing quickens, France notices, and it's likely those forest green eyes, hazy with fever and panic, have widened too.

England tries to yell.

But England is sick.

It results in a coughing fit, and since France's finger is still inside, he feels how the Englishman's body contracts, internal walls rippling and squeezing. France's apathy causes him to push in the second finger, earning a dry gasp from the younger nation.

England lets out a rough, choked sob, shuffling back as if to let France's fingers fall out of him, but France persists. He pushes them in deeper, much to England's dismay, and spreads them. Hot tears roll down England's reddened cheeks and a line of drool drips from the corner of his mouth. His lips shine with saliva and France looks at him with unabashed, unrequited lust.

Maybe once it could've been love, but it can't be anymore.

France finally inserts a third finger, the stretch burning as England cries softly. His nimble hands rest on France's chest, as if to push him away, but his ailment makes him weak and so they merely rest there like a disgusting reenactment of romance. France attempts to quieten him, his lips a barely-there caress on the flesh of England's throat. His teeth scrape the delicate skin and the younger nation flinches.

Spreading his fingers, France continues to pump them in and out, twisting as far as he can just to torture England that little bit more. He never knew he had such a sadistic streak, but he doesn't find himself complaining. Only England really complains, but he does so about pretty much everything so France can't seem to take it to heart. He notices with a faint ghost of a smile that England's pretty, pretty thighs are trembling, and he feels a swell of pride as he acknowledges that it's his doing.

Staring intently at the way the English nation's hole is stretched around his fingers, he retracts his hand and watches it twitch.

He seems ready enough, France decides.

Unzipping his fly is more difficult than usual, nimble fingers slipping due to the thick medicine. He manages eventually, and he kicks them off with little grace. It doesn't bother him at all, surprisingly. Nudging his boxers down to his knees, he reaches over to the small wooden table and he smothers medicine all over his throbbing cock. He crawls on top of England and positions the tip of his cock at that pink ring of muscle.

He doesn't wait for England to protest. He pushes in and is overwhelmed by the heat, the wet warmth that surrounds him. Eyes rolling back, his mouth hangs slightly open as he continues to push in to the hilt, tuning out England's rapid coughing and struggling and hoarse shrieking. Once he's fully breached England's small, pliant body, he lets out a loud exhale, lets go of a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. Gnawing on his lower lip, he pulls back out as far as he possibly can before slamming back inside with as much force, as much vigour as he can possibly muster.

As for England, he's sobbing as loudly as he can with a raw, scratchy throat. His body has gone limp for a reason he does not know, his mind numb. All he knows is that the repetitive intrusions burn, and that he cannot form a coherent thought. He knows he cannot fight back; what would be the point anyway? France's long cock has already penetrated him, and the drag of that hardened flesh against his inner walls tears at his mind. It hurts, though certainly less than it would've if France had been cruel and gone without the medicine as hastily chosen lubricant.

Said Frenchman continues to pound away, gasping for air with the greed of a drowning man, the lewd sounds of flesh on flesh lost through the haze of unrequited pleasure. He cares not for England's satisfaction, so he does not aim for the other nation's prostate at all, only brushing against it at certain intervals and dragging a series of pathetic whimpers and moans from the nation below him.

England's thought process is in tatters, body moving in a sickening rhythm with his rapist. His limbs feel heavy and his tongue feels too large for his mouth, so he lets his head fall to the side to avoid choking. It feels slightly better this way; he'd rather not look at the nation he grew up with, the nation he reluctantly admired, especially not as he forces himself upon him.

England's cock is only semi-hard, bouncing against his stomach with the sheer force France uses when he thrusts. England shuts his eyes and pleads to whatever God there is to make it stop as France dances on cloud nine, hips stuttering as he nears his climax.

Shoving inside that tight, wet heat a final time, France allows a loud, desperate groan to pass his lips, thrusting shallowly as he releases his cum into England's body. He continues to fuck the younger nation through his orgasm, panting and sucking in as much air as he can to fill his aching lungs. When he is truly done, he pulls out and licks his lips at the white semen that dribbles from England's reddened, puffy hole. 

France dresses himself again, takes his time to fix himself up as England wails behind him. He only wishes he could take a photo of his frenemy so vulnerable and violated, but he doesn't have the necessary equipment to do so. He resorts to keeping it in his mind for as long as he can. Surprisingly, no guilt plagues his mind as he pulls the duvet back up over England's exhausted body.

France is fully aware America will come over later to coddle England, but he cannot find the motivation to wipe away the cum that still leaks from England's arse, so he leaves him like that – half-naked with bruising hips, crying and trembling in his sick-bed.

France feels more satisfied than ever before as he shuts the door behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for any spelling/grammar errors! Thank you for reading :)


End file.
